Always, Mr Eames
by bipolar broadway baker
Summary: Eames finds a sad discovery on Arthur's wrists. But, when he convinces the young point man to tell him about his past, will it bring them closer than he ever imagined? Suicide and rape. Abusive relationships and child neglect. Sweet, sweet man kisses.


**So, I got really sick and rewatched Inception for the first time in, like, a year and a half. Arthur/Eames? I SHIP IT! FOEVER AND ALL TIME, I SHIP IT SO HARD! :) This is pretty much Arhtur's depressing, triggering past (be warned), mixed with a sweet get together fic. I apologize for any weirdness or OOCness. Please enjoy.**

It was burning hot in the warehouse, Sunlight streamed in the high windows onto the small team of people below. Ariadne and Cobb sat in the corner, going over her new designs for their latest job. Yusuf mixed his chemicals, and Arthur typed away on his laptop. He had been on that thing for hours, Eames wondered how Arthur could show no signs of discomfort. The point man had no sheen of sweat or heated flush in his cheeks like the rest of them. The only deterrence from his usual stone faced perfection was his rolled up sleeves, revealing his slim, toned forearms. Flirty, mischievous grin in place, Eames sauntered up to the younger man, sitting gently on the edge of his desk. And waited. His grin widened as Arthur started hitting the keys harder and harder with his fingertips, pointedly ignoring how Eames started to leer at him, almost comically.

It was very strange how openly gawking at him was the only way to get a good look at Arthur. Even when he was irritated and glaring at the computer screen, he looked absolutely breathtaking. His face was boyish, but angular, lit and shaded by the back-light of the laptop, reflecting in his expressive- currently frustrated beyond belief- brown eyes. He had a creamy, smooth, swan-like neck and a crisply ironed white button down with a light yellow silk tie and a camel colored waistcoat covering his beautifully prominent collarbones and tense shoulders. He was bordering on too thin, and Eames made a mental note to buy him lunch sometime. He had toned, strong arms that didn't look too threatening until you watch him crush some poor projection's trachea with a headlock. Arthur was difficult to read, which was what originally drew him to the young point man-

"Can I help you, Mr. Eames?"

"Is that what they're calling it these days, Love? He joked, continuing his scan down his elegantly lanky arms.

"You're incorrigible. Don't you have something to do, like, I don't know, _work _?"He replied dryly, finally turning to look at him, but Eames wasn't looking back. His smile slid off his face as he took in the point man's arm.

Arthur would never-

But why would he-

They were faint, but they were so undeniably there: scars. Thin white lines curled around insides of Arthur's milky pale wrists, building bridges over blue branches of delicate veins. Short ones, long ones, raised ones that were clearly deeper, and shallow ones that barely glinted in the sunlight. Then there was the big one. The long, angry one that was clearly the deepest, and had obvious purpose that Eames hated to think about.

"Eames?"

A life without Arthur. Eames tried to reply, only to find his heart lodged in his windpipe. Mechanically, he reached out, taking the skinny, gun calloused hand before he could pull away. He held him gently, as if he'd break. Just tight enough that he couldn't let go, and just light enough to feel the fluttering pulse and natural warmth of his skin. What if it was cold?

"Eames, let me go." Arthur's voice was low and shaky, trying to sound dangerous, but it bled into the terror his pulse betrayed him with. He looked like he was going to be sick. His normally pale skin was tinged with gray and clammy with sweat. His deep brown eyes didn't hold a glint of irritation anymore; just fear, and a thin veil of pained tears. "Eames, _please_. Let. me. go."Arthur pleaded, whispering.

"Take a walk with me, Darling." He mumbled for only Arthur to hear, rising and announcing that he was going to get lunch for everyone. "Help me carry it all, Arthur?" The other man gave a stilted nod, standing gracefully and walking to the door as if he wasn't about to tell Eames something he had probably never told anyone before. Eames had to jog down the Parisian side street to catch up to the point man.

"Okay, okay. Slow down and talk to me, Darling." He put a hand out, curling his fingers around Arthur's bicep, making him jerk away wildly and glare at him with fire in his eyes. The forger resisted the urge to jump back at the sudden change.

"What don't you understand about let. me. go.? Get your hands off me, and stop prying into things that have nothing to do with you!"

"I care about you, Arthur. That makes this my business." Eames replied calmly, trying to tame Arthur's new anger.

"It's in the past, Eames, it's fine!" There was the pleading again. He got a firm hold and pulled Arthur close, chest to chest, looking into his eyes. He could never live without this. Without _him_. The younger man was avoiding his eyes, looking anywhere but at Eames, trying to squirm away from his grip. Eames took his free hand and held Arthur's cheek, forcing him to meet his gaze, showing his own anger. Arthur was clearly scared again, but it was different this time: he was scared of him, looking at him like he was someone else, and flinching away from his hand. He felt guilt sweep him up in a wave, and gently stroked his thumb over his delicate cheekbone and loosened his grip.

"What happened to you, Darling?" He whispered, trying so hard to be gentle, and smiling when Arthur let his eyes drop closed against Eames' hand.

"_Eames,_" Arthur sighed, a mix of relief and pain in his voice.

"Please tell me, Arthur." His dark chocolate eyes opened and bore into his for a moment, contemplating.

"Let's start walking, and I'll tell you everything." he finally said. "and you can't tell anyone, okay?" Eames nodded seriously watching him carefully as they started off down the winding side streets of Paris.

"I grew up in New England. Old money in a big house on the Atlantic coast, with my mother and stepfather. My mom was very, um, distant. She had terrible anxiety, depression, and severe OCD, which only added to her phobia of germs. She didn't talk until she yelled. She would clean for _hours_. She never hugged me, touched me, barely acknowledged me until I did something wrong. My stepfather was on military tour, so I was alone. For years, I'd hear her crying in her room when I came home from school. Until, when I was 8, I came home and it was completely silent. I turned the corner and found her h-hanging in the doorway to her bedroom. That was when my stepfather came home.

I took a year off of school, getting home instruction. He – my stepfather- was always so nice to me. Of course, I was so young, I didn't really understand what he really wanted. Not until he started coming into my room at night. It was so confusing and- and so scary to go from such blatant neglect to such... _extreme_ attention so fast, and I started to get a really warped sense of affection and what it was." he gave a short, humorless laugh "I'm still not sure if I know." He stared at his feet as they walked to their usual cafe, a far away look in his eyes.

"That continued until I finished middle school. I guess I 'outgrew his tastes' or something, because I got shipped off to a military boarding school in San Diego. Even though I was just fourteen, I academically got placed with advanced juniors. I ended up graduating with honors a week before my sixteenth birthday. I moved to LA, got myself an apartment that only a trust fund baby could buy, and started reading a lot. In this coffee house down the street the summer I turned eighteen, I met this boy. His name was Andrew, and he was twenty years old. We... we had only been dating for a couple weeks the first time he really yelled at me. About a week later, he started hitting me. And after the first month... Well, it's much scarier when you do know exactly what's going on, and hurts a lot more when they're doing it because they think they own you. When they don't care what bruises they leave. In the end, it was the threat that did it, I guess. I was six months in with Andrew the first time I tried to run. But, he caught me on the fire escape and dragged me b-back." he cleared his throat "He had never beaten me like that before. It was the first time he really bruised my face."

Eames felt his heart break as he heard the tremor in Arthur's voice, the first real emotion since he started the story. Acting on impulse, he reached out, slotting Arthur's long, pianist fingers with his own. He wasn't sure what he was expecting from the point man, but it definitely wasn't the tentative squeeze around his knuckles, asking for reassurance. He could see the cafe in the distance now and stopped, pulling Arthur back onto a small bench with him, never letting go of the slim hand in his.

"Go on, Love."

"Well, Andrew kept h-hitting me and- and _screaming_. Yelling at me about how much I owed him and how ungrateful I was to try to abandon him. How- how he'd kill me before he ever let me go." Arthur took a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut as if it could wipe away the memories. Eames shuffled closer, fighting the urge to either hold Arthur close until they became inseparable, or hunt down the bastard that hurt him. "It just seemed like there was no possible way out. I- I didn't know what to do, and I'd be lying if I said I had never entertained the thought before; you saw the other cuts. I was just so _tired_." his voice was nothing but a harsh whisper now, almost lost in the bustling city noise, and Eames gave in, taking Arthur in his arms and holding him close.

So close. He had come so close to losing this, to losing Arthur. He was just a baby, who didn't understand how it felt to be loved. Not the way he could be. Not the way Eames could love him. He didn't give himself time to think about it, he couldn't afford to back out. He would never lose Arthur again.

The kiss was short and gentle, even though every voice in Eames' head screamed for more. More of those soft, beautiful lips that he had wanted the moment he'd met the point man. He hesitantly responded, and warmth spread through him, stifling on the hot day, but so refreshing as he met Arthur's eyes again, and couldn't help but grin. The point man smiled back shyly.

"And how long have you wanted to do that, Mr. Eames?"

"Since the moment I saw you, Darling." At that, Arthur's small smile became a full, dimpled grin.

"Well, we should probably get the food before Cobb sends out a search party."

"Yes, I suppose we should." Eames chuckled, taking Arthur's hand again, and pulling him into the cafe.

As they left the restaurant, still linking hands, conversation flowed easily. The trip back to the warehouse had never seemed shorter.

"So, what're you doing tonight?"

"Research... can wait. What did you have in mind?"

"Drinks 'round mine? After Cobb sets us free?" Arthur laughed.

"I'd love to, Mr. Eames." he smiled again, giving Eames palpitations. He kissed him gently before slipping away from Arthur's fingers and turning to the door. "Eames?" He didn't even get a chance to reply before warm lips were pressed against his. Then Arthur fixed him with the most breathtakingly sincere look with his brown eyes. "Thank you for listening to me."

"There's nothing I'd rather do, Pet." He pressed his lips to Arthur's forehead. "Tonight?"

"Always, Mr. Eames."


End file.
